Chapter 1: Livestream Lies and Dirty Games

My family never had much, but somehow, I’ve ended up being chased by the most popular guy in Chicago—the one everyone calls the rich kid who can do no wrong.

Sometimes, when I’m lying awake at night in our tiny two-bedroom apartment on the South Side, I wonder what it must feel like to have everything handed to you. Carter Evans? He’ll never have to wonder. He rolls up to campus in a brand-new Tesla, grinning like he’s got a secret, his hair always perfectly messy, like he just stepped off the set of some Netflix teen drama. And now, for reasons I can’t even begin to understand, he’s decided he won’t leave me alone—the girl in thrift store jeans with a bus pass shoved in her wallet.

It wasn’t until after we got together that I found out—he’d been livestreaming him trying to get with me on Instagram, acting like it was all just a game.

The shock didn’t hit me all at once. At first, I thought maybe I was reading it wrong. Maybe it was just some dumb prank, an inside joke between rich kids I’d never be part of. But the more I scrolled, the more it hit me, sharp and cold: Carter had turned me into a hashtag, a challenge, a story for his followers to snack on while they sipped overpriced lattes in River North.

And next up, he was planning to livestream his “home run” for all his trust-fund buddies. Yeah, that kind of home run.

Just thinking about it made my skin crawl. He wasn’t even trying to hide it—just another notch, another story to brag about in some dimly lit bar when he’s thirty and missing the days when he could get away with anything. I could practically hear the laughter already, echoing off marble countertops in someone’s penthouse. Disgusting.

But I wasn’t even mad. I actually agreed to spend the night with him. I know, I know—sounds wild. But I needed to see how far he’d go. I needed to flip the script before he could write my ending.

Maybe that sounds crazy. Maybe it was. But when you grow up watching your mom juggle three jobs and your dad drown his regrets in cheap whiskey, you learn to play your own games. You learn to survive. I smiled, batted my lashes, and told Carter exactly what he wanted to hear. Sometimes, you just have to outplay the players.

That night, I stood in front of the hidden camera. I pretended to be drunk. Then I said to him:

"I have an even better side. Want to see it?"

I put on my softest, syrupy voice—just how he liked it. My heart was pounding. My hands? Steady as ever. I wanted this moment burned into his memory—and into his friends’ screens, too.

"Dylan Monroe."

Dylan Monroe isn’t Carter.

He’s Carter’s best friend.

The name just hung there. Heavy. Dangerous. Carter’s face went slack, and for a split second, I saw something real flicker in his eyes—panic, maybe. Or fear. Whatever it was, it was beautiful.

After a week of dating Carter Evans, a friend suddenly sent me a post.

"Maya, doesn’t this sound like it’s about you..."

My phone buzzed as I was walking out of chem lab, the Chicago wind whipping my hair into my face. The message was from Jasmine, who never missed a thing on social. I stopped dead, thumb hovering over the link. Deep down, I already knew what I’d see.

The post was titled: "The Ice Queen? More Like Lukewarm."

The blogger was some guy, betting with his friends about how long it’d take to win over the most popular girl on campus. He livestreamed the whole chase.

At first, I figured it was just some random dude showing off. But then I saw the username—CarterEvans95—and my stomach dropped. Everything lined up: the campus, the timeline, even the way he described my laugh as "barely there, like she’s afraid to be happy."

On the first day, he wrote:

"Honestly, I’m not into this type of girl at all. Cold just means she’s not flirty enough. If it wasn’t for the bet, I wouldn’t bother."

His words stung, even though I saw it coming. I could hear his bored, dismissive voice in my head, like I was just another forgettable line in his script.

On the tenth day:

"She actually texted me first, lol, what ice queen? Just lukewarm."

I remembered that night. I’d sent him a meme—dogs in sweaters—hoping he’d laugh. I wanted to believe he saw something in me worth chasing. Turns out, he did. Just not for the reasons I hoped.

On the thirtieth day:

"Confession worked, got her easy! Seeing her all emotional, I almost couldn’t keep a straight face."

There was a photo attached: two hands clasped together.

I knew that hand. Even the mole on the knuckle was exactly like mine.

I stared at the photo for a long time, thumb tracing the tiny, dark spot near my thumb joint. I remembered how Carter squeezed my hand that day—his grip just a little too tight, like he was afraid I’d slip away before the camera got its shot.

I was sure—Carter Evans posted this.

At the end of the post, some followers egged him on:

"Chasing her is whatever, show us a home run if you dare."

Carter replied confidently: "Just wait."

I could see him now, smirking at his phone, surrounded by his crew in some overpriced steakhouse. Did they high-five him after?

Everyone knew Carter Evans—the rich kid with a new girlfriend every week. His family’s money meant he never ran out of options. But I’d never even spoken to him before.

It was always the same: Carter in the quad, girls orbiting like moths around a porch light. I kept my head down, headphones on, pretending not to notice. I figured I’d never be on his radar. Joke’s on me—I was just a new challenge.

A month ago, he suddenly started chasing me, making a whole production out of it. Everyone said Carter Evans was finally serious. I let myself fall for his act, too.

He sent flowers to my classes, left notes in my locker, even learned my coffee order. My friends swooned. I tried to resist, but it felt good to be wanted—for once, to be seen. I let myself believe it was real.

And then there was my roommate, Brooke Simmons.

Like right now—

Brooke came back to our dorm. As soon as she saw me, she gave me this look like she knew something I didn’t:

"Maya, Carter asked you out tomorrow. Why didn’t you say yes?"

She tossed her backpack onto her bed, then started fidgeting with her phone as she plopped down beside me. Brooke always managed to turn everything into juicy gossip, even when she was pretending to be concerned.

"I’ve got plans."

I didn’t look up from my laptop, but I could feel her eyes boring into me, all sharp curiosity and judgment.

"Oh? What’s more important than your boyfriend?"

She scooted closer and said, all earnest:

"Carter really likes you. Just be a little warmer to him, or I’ll start feeling sorry for the guy."

Her voice was sticky sweet, but there was an edge—like she was daring me to disagree. Brooke loved playing peacemaker, but she loved drama even more.

"Feel sorry? Then you date him."

Brooke looked like I’d just slapped her.

She blinked, lips parted, clearly not expecting me to bite back. For a second, she looked almost guilty, but then she forced a laugh, brushing it off like I was just being snarky.

Don’t think I don’t know—she and Carter are up to something.

I’d just seen Brooke’s username in the post:

CreeksideBrooke: [He’s chasing her so hard, I’m actually jealous~]

CarterEvans: [It’s just for fun. If you dated me, what would she matter?]

CreeksideBrooke: [Haha, we’re all friends here, what are you saying.]

CarterEvans: [Others are friends, you’re the real MVP.]

She and Carter messaged constantly. Anyone who didn’t know better would think they were flirting.

I remembered the late-night giggles, the way Brooke’s phone would light up with Carter’s name, her sneaky glances to make sure I wasn’t looking. Suddenly, it all made sense.

Looking back over the past month, Brooke had really put in work, always trying to get me to like Carter.

She’d hype him up at every chance, dropping hints about how lucky I was, how sweet he could be. She’d nudge me to reply to his texts, to give him a shot. I thought she was just being a supportive friend. Now, I wondered if she’d been playing both sides the whole time.

I didn’t want to deal with her, so I turned and went into the bathroom. The door didn’t even close all the way. Typical dorm life.

I splashed cold water on my face, trying to cool the anger burning under my skin. The flickering fluorescent light made everything look even more miserable.

Soon, Brooke’s voice drifted in, all whiny:

"Carter, your girlfriend’s got a real attitude problem. Who does she think she is?"

Her words bounced off the tile. I froze, listening, my stomach twisting.

Carter’s voice followed, flat and bored:

"She made you mad? Don’t worry, once I dump her, I’ll definitely take your side."

I gripped the sink so hard my knuckles turned white. He made it sound like I was just another inconvenience.